Mexico City, Chimalhuacán.
In a warehouse, rock heavy metal music with a strong flavor was very addictive, sung by some unknown celebrity.
"Money, money, money, spend it all, treat it as something fun, take me to the dance floor I want to go to..."
Holder, walking in from the entrance, frowned and pointed at a young man fiddling with the sound system, "Andrea, turn that idiot off."
The other was obviously a music enthusiast, twisting his body and completely ignoring him.
Bang!
Ryan raised his pistol and fired, hitting the sound system directly to the ground. Though the quality was good, it was still playing.
This startled Andrea greatly. He waved his hands, about to express his dissatisfaction, when Ryan came up and punched him. He staggered and fell to the ground. The latter mounted him and grabbed his neck, facial muscles trembling, "Bastard, do you think this is a kindergarten or a bar?"
His left hand held a gun and stuffed it in the other's mouth, eyes glaring at him, "Did your mother tell you to know respect when you're out here?"
"Believe it or not, I'll blow your dog head off right now."
Andrea quickly raised his hands, finally scared.
Ryan stood up with a dark expression, kicked him, "Get over there and stand. Everyone come here, hurry up!"
Those who had been watching from the side quickly lined up.
There were 13 people total, all local "kids" from Chimalhuacán. Most of them were old-timers who had been around for years, and quite a few had already seen blood.
Mexico actually had only one way out.
Children from wealthy families joined family businesses - drug dealing.
Children from poor families joined other people's family businesses - drug dealing.
Going around and around, it was all fucking criminal activities. How many famous Mexican scholars could you name?
Ryan wore coffee-colored combat pants with a Makarov pistol at his waist, hands on hips, face stern, "I don't care which gang you were with before or which drug lord's subordinates you were, but now you're members of Mexico's new generation."
"Anyone who doesn't want to stay should say so early, but if I find anyone betraying us, I'll bury him!"
Ryan's lower eye whites looked very fierce, scanning each one. His physique was quite intimidating and had a strong sense of oppression, "Anyone quitting?"
He called two or three times. The 13 people looked at each other, but no one stepped out.
"Very good." Ryan nodded satisfactorily and nodded to Holder behind him.
The latter pulled out an envelope from his jacket, stuffed full and bulging, and threw it on a nearby table. Several bills fell out, quickly attracting their attention.
"600 pesos per person. Unlike other organizations, we pay salaries punctually on the 1st of every month. Those joining mid-month or end of month count as a full month, with wages paid the following month." Holder spoke hoarsely, "200 pesos for one field operation, plus 500 pesos for injuries, 500 dollars directly for death."
The 13 newcomers immediately ignored Ryan and started whispering among themselves.
This welfare treatment...
Really had nothing to complain about.
These 13 guys weren't important figures in their original organizations, so naturally they got little money. Have you ever seen a subordinate get rich?
The Gulf Group's benefits for plantation farmers were guaranteeing their safety from threats by other drug trafficking organizations, plus 6 pesos per person, about $3 in the 1980s - considered decent income.
Ordinary drug dealers in transportation were paid by trips, with different prices based on the danger level of goods. But if you got caught by police while transporting, you were finished - your whole family had to die.
The highest paid were gunmen, professionally responsible for seizing territory, kidnapping rival leaders, and other violent actions. In 2019, an American blogger contacted a drug dealer online who showed him around internally and introduced him to a gunman. The other was wrapped like a mummy in his camera, telling him the salary was about 18,500 pesos.
But with economic inflation and exchange rates at 17:1, that equaled $1,500 - not low income even domestically in America.
So having 600 pesos in the 1980s was incredibly good welfare.
"Boss!" The more jumpy Andrea raised his hand, eyes shining, "Can I call my brothers over?"
"Right, right, I have a brother who's 11 this year, as tall as me." Others nearby also chimed in.
Some even planned to bring their retired old fathers.
"Quiet!" Ryan frowned and shouted. Everyone stopped talking, but their eyes kept drifting to the side, "One by one to get money. Andrea, start with you."
The other grinned, stood in front of the table and even bowed, "Boss."
Holder counted out 6 hundred-peso bills and handed them to him. The other took them and counted them on the spot - Mexicans were just that direct. Just as he was about to leave, he was called back. Holder pulled a gun from a box at his feet and threw it in front of him.
"This is yours."
An authentic Izhevsk Mechanical Plant-manufactured Makarov pistol.
"You're also giving out weapons?" Andrea looked up and blinked.
"We're a violent institution, not a nursery. Should we give out pacifiers instead of weapons?"
Ryan impatiently waved his hand from the side, "This is organizational welfare. Everyone who joins Mexico's new generation gets a handgun. I'll select 4 small leaders from you people. Then besides handguns, you'll also get submachine guns and grenades."
It seemed this organization was richer and more generous than imagined.
Coming out to mix, wasn't the hope to meet a "generous" boss?
But equipping everyone with one was indeed somewhat terrifying. Weren't they afraid they'd sell them?
Getting the gun, Andrea smiled even more happily, jokingly gesturing at his colleagues. Ryan went up and kicked him, "Don't point the gun at your own people. If you do this again next time, I'll break your fingers!"
This scared Andrea into quickly ducking his head and returning to formation, touching his weapon.
After everyone got their salaries, Holder nodded to Ryan, who stepped forward, "From now on, you'll come here every day to train with me. If anyone's late or doesn't come without valid reason, don't say I'm heartless."
"Now everyone take your weapons and follow me." Ryan led them to the large courtyard inside. Holder sat in a chair with a cigarette, saying nothing.
But he didn't know how to train people, so he could only have military-background Ryan handle it while he managed overall planning.
And making money!
Making money hard, then fucking upgrading equipment.
Recently an old colleague had contacted him with some goods that really tempted him.
...
Anna's death only caused some ripples in Altiplano prison. Familiar people said a few words of pity, but there wasn't much commotion.
It would be strange if Mexico didn't have deaths. Even the president could win peace prizes.
Victor stayed peacefully in the monitoring room for two or three days, going to work on time and leaving on time. Gallardo in the monitors was as lonely as an injured wolf, huddled in the corner.
He didn't even call for women.
Indeed, those who accomplished great things were either lustful to death or terrifyingly self-disciplined.
Victor made a cup of Nestlé instant coffee and stood by the window, which happened to overlook the third block opposite during exercise time. Groups here and there, he could even see police handing out cigarettes individually.
He even saw a strong man covered in tattoos grab a guard's hat and casually throw it away, causing laughter from those nearby.
Victor blew on his coffee, as if seeing something interesting. Looking up, he saw several people in a corner seeming to fight, then guards went to break it up...
They got hit?
That figure looked very familiar.
The guard turned and blew his whistle. Victor also saw clearly - it was Casare.
The two groups grew larger, finally developing into dozens of people. The alarm sounded at this time.
Victor's face had been drooping since Casare got hit. He gently placed his coffee by the window, "Too bitter, need to add some sugar."
"I'm going out for a bit." He told the guard who came over to watch the excitement, took his hat from the desk and walked out of the office.
He was quite protective and couldn't stand this.
Wild dogs locked in cages always needed a few whips to tell them who was in charge.
Casare covered his face - that punch wasn't light, making him dizzy. A colleague beside him quickly helped him away from the fighting circle.
Fortunately, after the last "football shooting" incident, the prison conducted internal anti-crime operations, confiscating guns. Otherwise, bullets might be flying now.
After the alarm sounded, emergency teams quickly arrived to control the scene. But Mexican drug dealers were just arrogant. This time they seemed to have gotten fired up and started fighting with police too.
The emergency team didn't dare shoot. Even when Hagis was alive, he didn't have that courage. Many of those fighting had backing - injuring them would be trouble.
"Since when do police in prison have to wait for criminals to finish fighting before taking action?"
Hearing the voice, Casare turned to see Victor. Covering his face, his voice changed, "Victor."
"If they don't listen, beat them to death!"
Victor pulled out his pistol and fired several shots at the sky. The two fighting groups instantly stopped and turned to look at him.
But the next second, they were fighting again.
Victor smiled happily, "I love rebellious people all my life."
He targeted an unlucky guy, rushed up, grabbed him under the armpit, threw him back, and fired three shots at his legs.
"I'll count to three - hands on your head and squat down!"
The gun muzzle turned toward the fighting crowd.